Only the Beginning
by Olethros
Summary: Disgraced by the FBI, Clarice Starling receives a chance to start over from the one person she never expected to see again.
1. An Unexpected Guest

Time: Set four years after Silence of the Lambs, departs from the canon  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. *wishes she did* I'm merely playing with the characters that the god Thomas Harris created.  
  
  
  
Part I  
  
An Unexpected Guest  
  
  
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation, as if something untoward would happen. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. Some sounds coming from the entrance of the house now. The curtains continued to dance, and then the entire mood was shattered by a deafening thud from the entrance door.  
  
A muffled curse and then some keys jangling in the door lock. The wooden door creaked as a haggard-looking Clarice Starling backed through the entrance into her side of the duplex. She balanced a large cardboard box in one hand and sucked on the index finger of her other hand.  
  
She dropped the box roughly to the ground and made a half-hearted attempt to sort through the contents before kicking the entire box underneath the hallway chest. Clarice made her way through the darkened halls to the kitchen, massaging her swollen finger as she went. Crap, she wouldn't be able to use it for at least a day.  
  
She removed her jacket, revealing the gun holster at her side. She lifted the .45 from her side and set it on the table before pressing the button on her answering machine.  
  
"Clarice, hey, it's Jack Crawford. I know that today had to be a rough day for you, and I'd really like to apologize for---."  
  
Crawford's voice cut off abruptly as Clarice skipped to the next message. The last thing she needed to hear was his voice of pity. Clarice blindly walked to a cabinet and removed a glass. She filled it with vodka as she listened to Ardelia's voice reminding her that she would be gone all month on the Mankin case.  
  
You have fun, girl. I'll just stay home and get totally hammered. It's the least I can do for myself.  
  
Clarice walked over to the refrigerator and pressed the button for ice. Nothing. She smacked the ice machine hard. Still nothing, before she noticed that her entire refrigerator was silent. It didn't even seem to be plugged in.  
  
"Hello, this is General Electric reminding you that your power has been turned off for routine maintenance. We are unsure as to how long the delay will be, but we apologize for the inconvenience." Beep. Then the automated voice informed her that it was her final message.  
  
Great. This was just great. Clarice made her way into the living room where the moonlight streaming through the windows gave her some light. She sat down hard in one of the sofas, sipping her drink. As she felt the alcohol begin to affect her brain, she settled down for another sleepless night drifting in and out of consciousness. These days were becoming more and more frequent, although she kept trying to deny the reasons. Thoughts, disappointment, self-disgust. Today, mostly self-disgust. Always, when this happened, Clarice would show up for work the next morning hiding behind her vigorous shell while she was dying inside. Then she heard it again. For only the thousandth time that day.  
  
You will let me know when those lambs stop screaming?  
  
"Shut up, Dr. Lecter," Clarice muttered. "Your voice is the last one I need to hear right now."  
  
The disembodied voice inside her brain seemed not to agree. Your problem, Clarice, is that you need to get more fun out of life.  
  
"I tried, Doctor. I talked to you. Now, see where it's gotten me."  
  
Dr. Lecter's words were beginning to blur. They had degenerated into an incessant ringing. Clarice set her glass down, mostly unfinished, and rubbed her aching head. "Stop it." The ringing continued, but her head was clear. No, it wasn't in her head. Almost absently, Clarice lifted the squawking portable phone from its cradle.  
  
"Hello?" she said in a slurred voice.  
  
"Hello, Clarice."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Momentary silence from the other side of the line. Then, "I would think that an FBI agent would at least take the precaution to lock her back door."  
  
A brief chill. Clarice chuckled softly with forced ignorance. "Who is this?"  
  
"Clarice, I'm disappointed. You know very well who this is."  
  
Realization, cold and merciless, ran through her body like ice. The warm bliss of alcohol drained from her brain, and clearheaded, agonizingly clear, Clarice found herself racing into the kitchen and snatching the .45 from the table. Fortunately, the hand she had smashed underneath the box had been her left hand. In the darkness filtered by moonlight, Clarice racked a full clip into the gun and slipped another into her pocket.  
  
"What are you doing, Clarice?" the phone said from the table.  
  
Clarice picked up the phone and held it gingerly as if it were poison. "Dr. Lecter, where are you?"  
  
He ignored her and said, "Why was your gun empty, Clarice?"  
  
"What?" Clarice backed against the wall and edged very slowly toward the back door.  
  
"I heard you load it. I believe a Behavioral Science agent is supposed to keep her gun loaded at all times?"  
  
Clarice carefully surveyed the darkened hall by the back door. Nothing. Still as death. She forced herself to hold the phone steady. "Don't play dumb, Dr. Lecter. You know everything that happens to me." The grandfather clock next to the staircase chimed eleven o'clock. The sound was reciprocated in the phone, faintly. Clarice brought the gun up in front of her and started making her way to the staircase.  
  
Talk. Keep him distracted. Clarice opened her mouth to talk, but before she could, Dr. Lecter spoke again. "Put down the gun, Clarice. If I wanted to kill you, I would have already done so."  
  
"Then why are you here, Doctor? I thought you promised that you wouldn't call on me." She had reached the grandfather clock and thought she saw a flash of movement to her left. She headed that way, quickly and silently.  
  
"Speak for yourself, Clarice. You owe me some information that you have not given."  
  
An ad in the national edition of the "Times" and in the "International Herald-Tribune" on the first day of any month...  
  
"There's nothing to give."  
  
"Who's playing dumb now? No, not in here, Clarice." He said the last sentence as Clarice stepped into the dining room, gun at ready.  
  
"Stop playing games with me, Doctor. I won't do it."  
  
"How about the games your FBI has been playing with you, hmm? Tell me. It's the least you could do."  
  
More than a little frustrated now. "You want to know? Fine, that idiot Krendler has been dripping poison into my file ever since I got on Behavioral Science. And after today's...incident, he pounced. He knew the FBI had no other choice. I'm done, Dr. Lecter. It's OVER." In a quieter voice, "Did you know that someone's entire career could fit into a single box?"  
  
"Was it your fault, Clarice?"  
  
"What the hell does it matter? The public wanted someone to blame. The FBI delivered."  
  
"It matters to you, Clarice. You want to know that you did everything possible, so you might feel at peace with the situation. Tell me what happened."  
  
She thought she heard the clatter of kitchen utensils in the phone and headed that way fast. "It's in half the nation's newspapers already. Let them---"  
  
"I want to hear it from YOU, Clarice. Not some blood-sucking tabloid reporter. Tell me."  
  
The kitchen was empty. Clarice sagged against the doorjamb between the kitchen and living room. "The FBI had cornered a serial killer in his apartment. They sent four people in, and I was one of them. What we didn't know was that he had three men with him...and a hostage, a twelve-year-old girl." She wasn't crying yet, but unshed tears glistened in her eyes. "They ambushed us on the stairs...we never saw it coming. By the time it was over, they were all dead. I tried to save her and I couldn't do it. The girl died because of me, because I failed her. Okay?"  
  
There was beat of silence long after she had finished talking. "I'm sorry to hear that, Clarice."  
  
She nearly laughed. "Are you really? So am I." She suddenly remembered what she was doing and the gun came back to chest level as she entered the living room again and almost absently flicked the light switch on. Nothing happened, and it reminded her of her stupidity.  
  
"Would you shoot me, Clarice?"  
  
"That totally depends on you, Doctor. What would you do?" She crossed the living room floor, still deserted. "You seem to know my house better than I do."  
  
"Well, I have had four years, Clarice."  
  
Clarice stood numbly, barely comprehending. "You mean that you've---." Then she thought she heard the closet door creak and spun toward the sound, raising the gun. However, when it came, it came from behind her.  
  
A second later, she found her back pinned against the wall and the .45 wrenched roughly from her grasp. A hand went over her mouth as she began to scream. Her heart pounding, she lifted her eyes to the face sharpened by silver moonlight that she had memorized four long years ago. 


	2. Redemption

A/N: Hey everybody, much thanks for all the kind reviews I've received. Those of you that provided e-mail addresses were personally thanked. For everyone else, I thank you here!  
  
  
  
  
Part II  
  
Redemption  
  
  
  
Clarice's eyes opened wide in terror as Lecter gently set the gun on the dresser next to the wall. He turned his head around to look at her. In the dark room, his maroon eyes looked almost black, but the familiar fire still burned there. Slowly, the hand came down from her mouth.  
  
"Can I let you go, Clarice? Will you promise not to run, or kill me?" Lecter had purposely put the gun just inches from her reach. He wanted to see what she would do. Her reaction was the last thing he would have expected.  
  
She did nothing.  
  
Then she blinked and slowly sagged, as if she were a balloon and a hand was letting the air out little by little. She slumped against the wall until nothing seemed to be left except a shell. It was as if that one burst of terror had taken all her soul had left to offer. After much stuttering and many false starts, her voice shook slightly as her mouth tried to remember how to speak, "Why didn't you come here to kill me? It would have been the nicest...nicest thing you could have done."  
  
Tears froze in dry rivulets on her face. Grief spent, exhaustion had overtaken her spirit. Lecter gazed at her solemnly. This was not the same Clarice he had looked upon four years ago. But from that time up until now, he had watched her deterioration, always from a respectable distance, until he couldn't take it anymore. Tonight's action had probably not been the most prudent thing to do, but now he was here.  
  
And once again, she needed him. Hannibal pondered this as he took her gently in his arms and carried her out of the living room. She mumbled softly as he carried her up the stairs and then laid her in her bed. "I don't wanna go to sleep." He shushed her as he pulled off her shoes and tucked the covers around her shivering form. Hannibal headed to the bathroom for a glass of water. His hands found the cabinets and sink as easily as if they had eyes.  
  
When he returned to Clarice, she was sitting up in her bed, eyes staring intently at the wall. "Get back in bed, Clarice. You need your rest."  
  
"Not tired." She snatched the glass from him and drank thirstily. "After all, it's not like I have to get up for work tomorrow." Clarice stared at the empty glass for awhile, turning it round and round in her hands. "Have you really been breaking into my house ever since graduation?"  
  
"I had some business to care of first. And then not every day. I don't take foolish chances." At least not most of the time, he thought.  
  
Business? Clarice decided that she didn't want know. "This is so weird. I'm sitting in my house, making small talk with a serial killer. If only the FBI could see me now...what am I saying, they wouldn't care." She squeezed the glass harder in her hands until it almost broke. "I thought everything would be all right after graduation. You know, protect the sheep." Her hands clenched in rage. "And they hated me for it. They hated what YOU had done for me, Dr. Lecter."  
  
"I do have a first name, Clarice."  
  
"I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you, DR. LECTER." She fell silent after that and Hannibal took that moment to speak.  
  
"Do you know why they detest you, Clarice? You have something they don't, you CARE. They have tried to dumb you down into one of them over the years, but it didn't work. So they rid themselves of what they could not be."  
  
"Dammit, don't analyze me. The last thing I need is someone else picking my life apart."  
  
Hannibal looked as if he were about to speak and then changed his mind.  
  
Clarice silently thanked him for the brief respite. Those thoughts immediately changed as her mind took advantage of the slight lull and hit her with everything she had ever done, feared, or regretted. If only she had never descended down into that dungeon. If only she had never gone to Memphis. If only she had never stuck her neck out for her own personal delusions of justice. If only, if only...she had become just like them. They would have left her alone then. Society did not stand for anyone different from the expected, and certainly not the FBI. Hannibal and she were both victims of that, she thought. Hannibal, no, Dr. Lecter, he must always be Dr. Lecter to her, or else it would be worse for her. But it was hard to imagine how she could be any worse off.  
  
Something rose in her throat again, but only a single tear rolled down her face. Something ugly and uncomfortable was building up inside her. Frustration on top of frustration was threatening to break through. Her hate for what had tortured her soul and robbed her of sleep so many nights. The fact she was helpless to change it, to make it go away. And Lecter's words had only served to drive the thorn in her side deeper into her flesh. The words hurt her, perhaps because they were true.  
  
Hannibal looked at her face, muscles under her skin contracted with frustration. Usually the pain would have been sweet, but now, now, he couldn't quite explain it. Almost absently, Hannibal raised his hand and wiped the tear off her cheek; his hand moved like a gentle whisper over her skin. Clarice recoiled like a spring and broke.  
  
"DON'T TOUCH ME! IT'S ALL YOUR GODDAMN FAULT!!" It was as if a dam had broken. All her anger, despair, fear, frustration, it all exploded out at that moment. It all came out and there was no one else in the room except for Hannibal, so she focused it all on him. The glass flew out of her hand, Hannibal moved his head out of the way just in time as the glass smashed into the opposite wall.  
  
And then she screamed and pounded her fists into him again and again. For a fleeting instant, she thought she would be struck dead in the next second. Hannibal Lecter didn't let someone attack him like that without retribution. But then Clarice didn't care. She didn't care anymore if she lived or died.  
  
She didn't know if he would kill her, taunt her, break her down and knew that he was quite capable of all three. But perhaps ugliest of all, she knew for a fact that he would never, never leave her. She hated, hated, hated, she did not hate him, but she let him have all her hate because she knew he would not abandon her. The ones you hurt are the ones closest to you, because to them, you are not expendable. She poured out her soul because he would not turn away and leave it spilling out onto the ground.  
  
Hannibal was shocked at the onslaught, but he did nothing to stop her. He simply held her. He drew her closer in his arms, at first so she couldn't draw her fists back so far to hit. And then he held her until her body was smothered in his embrace. Until her hate and anger were spent. Until he had taken it all and given none in return. He held her sobbing in his arms.  
  
Clarice's mind was racing and crashing and dancing in confusion like a badly tuned TV station. She had deceived him, and he had stayed. She had tried to kill him and he did nothing. She had screamed in his face and he was gentle. Society had said he was dangerous, a murderer, a killer. She should be afraid of him. Well, screw them. And screw the FBI as well. She had fallen in love with them and they had stuck a knife in her back.  
  
Something was happening in her mind. Emotions that she had learned to hide, that she had feared to let show, that she had poured into a corrupted cause were surging forward like a tidal wave. It drowned the hate and rushed through her aching, broken soul and brought it out into the light. A soul bright-eyed and full of the life that she had forgotten.  
  
"Oh God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Hannibal, I'm so sorry." Before she knew what she was doing, she kissed him hard on the lips. Her old self tried pitifully to resist for a second before walls came crashing down and the tidal wave rolled over and trampled what she had been. She kissed him again and again. Hannibal sat stiffly, his face frozen with shock. And slowly he began to respond. Softly at first before he held her tighter, crushing her mouth against his, taking, taking her, alternately taking and giving of her.  
  
This was genuine passion with no strings attached, deception, or second thoughts. It was true and it was right in front of her. She wondered how she could have missed it before. Clarice burned for it, a dancing, laughing flame with a rapidly fading memory of the icy hell she had just been through.  
  
Her hands moved over Hannibal's face, his neck, his chest. She felt his heart beating strongly through his shirt. This was LIFE. She wanted it, oh, how she wanted it. Her hand tore the cloth and the buttons ripped off his shirt. Hannibal kissed her hard, taking her into his mouth, before laying her on the bed once again, and Clarice surrendered to his welcome weight. 


	3. Food for Thought

Once-again disclaimer: I don't own anybody except Layton. He's mine, so I can do whatever I want with him. *looks at chapter title, pauses, grins evilly, hmm...*  
  
  
Part III  
  
Food for Thought  
  
Clarice awoke only once during that night, shaking with a nightmare, before Hannibal's comforting presence soothed her back to sleep. The next time she opened her eyes, the sun was already high in the sky and streaming into the room in dusty shafts. She tried to yawn, but found that she was not tired. God, what time was it? She began to move the covers aside and stopped when a chill met her bare skin. Clarice shivered as she heard the air conditioner blasting in the room. The power must have returned overnight.  
  
It was then she noticed that the bed was empty. Fear and loneliness swept over her for a brief moment before she stopped and nearly smiled. Faint sounds of a radio traveled into the room from downstairs as well as the comforting smell of eggs and bacon. At least she hoped it was bacon.  
  
Hannibal was humming a classical tune to himself, giving half an ear to the morning breaking news, as he turned the bacon in the pan. Still careful, Clarice thought with a smile. His head came around as Clarice came downstairs in a bathrobe.  
  
"That smells great. Is that Chopin?"  
  
He placed the ready strips of meat in a battered plate, rough and chipped and generally unacceptable. But it would have to do for now. "Scarlatti. So, Sleeping Beauty has finally awakened."  
"What time is it?"  
  
"Nearly three in the afternoon."  
  
Clarice sat down at the table and ate ravenously, savoring the feeling of proper hunger again. Each bite of food seemed to lift her spirits a little more. "That's odd. I don't remember ever having bacon in the refrigerator."  
  
"Your kitchen is rather pathetic to say the least. When was the last time you had a proper breakfast?"  
  
"Whenever Ardelia felt up to the task. I can't cook worth a damn...I can't do anything worth a damn."  
  
Hannibal raised one eyebrow in disbelief and held it there just a minute, so Clarice could be sure to see it. Then he fetched his coat and a baseball cap from the counter.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"Shopping. You need some decent supplies and kitchenware. And, thanks to you, I will need a new shirt." Hannibal smiled coyly as Clarice turned her head so he would not see her blush. He draped what seemed to be a trench coat around his shoulders and pulled the cap low over his forehead. He paused. "Take care and don't call the police while I'm away." Without even waiting for her reply, Hannibal stepped out the door and was gone.  
  
What the hell would I call them for? Clarice cleared the table and looked around her kitchen. Hannibal was right, everything was a mess. She picked up a rag and began scrubbing away at a whiskey stain. She spent the afternoon cleaning up her kitchen, not paying attention to much of anything and ignoring the occasional reporter that came knocking at her door. They would not be leaving her alone for quite awhile.  
  
By the time evening rolled around, Hannibal had not yet returned, but the kitchen looked reborn. As Clarice looked around, she realized for the first time just how much better it appeared. The countertops, where previously they were worn and stained, now sparkled white and the whole room seemed to glow with a new sense of care.  
  
Wow, maybe I can accomplish something after all.  
  
There came a knocking at her door. Clarice put down the rag and walked over to the door. Probably another reporter, she thought, as she looked through the spyhole. No, it was a rather casually dressed man. Short-cut brown hair, blue eyes, and he didn't seem to be hiding a camera or microphone anywhere. Intrigued, Clarice opened the door.  
  
The man blinked and looked up at her. "Hello, are you Clarice Starling?"  
  
"Are you a reporter?"  
  
"You are Ms. Starling; I saw your picture. No, I'm not a reporter, let me introduce myself. My name is Michael Layton and I'm with the FBI."  
  
Clarice stiffened at the acronym and she almost considered shutting the door in his face. The door wavered a bit before she smiled. "Agent Layton. I'm not sure I'm familiar with your name."  
  
"Oh, you don't know me, I just graduated from Academy last year. I, um, need your help on something."  
  
"The FBI wants the help of an ex-Special Agent? They must really be desperate." She paused for a moment while Layton waited hopefully. "Come in."  
  
Clarice led him into the living room to a chair. Layton coughed. "Um, Ms. Starling, first of all, I'd like to apologize for what they did over the Sherman incident. It wasn't your fault and..."  
  
"That's none of your business, Agent Layton. The FBI did what they had to." Cut the crap and get to the point, she thought.  
  
Layton seemed to read her thoughts and shifted uncomfortably before sitting in the chair. Starling was every bit as difficult as his fellow agents had warned him, although he hadn't believed them then. Perhaps this was going to be a little more of a job than he had thought. "Ah, okay. I had some papers, but I thought you had seen enough paperwork to last you a lifetime."  
  
Might as well tell her, he couldn't be here all day. But he really didn't like the way she was looking at him. Tell her. "I've been put on the Lecter case, and I need your help...since you seem to be the expert on him."  
  
The tension was so thick one could have cut it with a knife.  
  
Clarice said very slowly, "You just graduated last year? What are they doing, putting you on that sort of case?"  
  
"I...I don't know. The Section Chief sent me. He told me to try to get several interviews with you, hopefully one today, but I wasn't sure you'd be up to it, or if you'd even agree. Um, you're something of a legend in my department." Oh God, that was stupid. What the hell did he just say that for?  
  
Clarice was thinking the same. Oh yes, the infamous Clarice Starling. Well-known for climbing so high and then falling so far in the mere space of four years. Hoping with all her might that Hannibal was not coming back yet, Clarice said, "No one is an expert on Lecter. No one comes close to understanding him. And if you're trying to catch him..." Layton nodded. She was going to say more and then stopped.  
  
Hannibal had just appeared immediately behind Layton's chair. His eyes went wide before looking at Clarice. When Layton coughed and lowered his eyes for a minute, Clarice silently mouthed "No." Then she continued, "...if you're trying to catch him, I'm not sure how much I could help."  
  
A ray of hope sparked in Layton's heart. Well, at least she wasn't going for his throat. Yet. He tried to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I know. He's creepy, isn't he? I mean, he could be hiding anywhere and we wouldn't even know it."  
  
To this day, Clarice never remembered just how she kept herself from bursting out into laughter at that time.  
  
Layton looked at his hands again and said, "Well, um, I just need you to agree to a couple interviews. Could the first one be tomorrow at this time maybe?"  
  
Clarice bit back half a dozen rude replies that had been running through her head. This man should seem easy to tell off. How could he expect her to help him? She had no obligation to him. Yet something was nagging, nagging, at the back of her brain and she couldn't figure out quite what it was. Then she lifted her head and her eyes met those of Hannibal's. And as she looked into his eyes, memories came back, and she knew.  
  
You're sooo ambitious aren't you...?  
  
In that instant, Clarice saw into Layton's life. Tedious hours of work, study, and field for this dream of the FBI. Sucking up to superiors for the prize jobs. And now he thought he had one, and he was determined not to screw it up. She saw his nervousness and self-disgust at the words he had not meant to say. Hopefulness, all aimed at her, all resting on her. Clarice saw everything. And it scared her out of her mind. Somehow, looking into this person's mind seemed wrong, but it also gave her a sense of power. I know him, I can do whatever I want, because he's depending on me, and I know him.  
  
She did not know how she had done it, how she had thrown open the windows to his soul. But as she continued looking into Hannibal's eyes, she remembered what Hannibal might have felt, their fateful first meeting. I don't know owe this person anything, but what do I risk? She could toy with the case, make him play her game, and it would be enough for the FBI. Maybe Layton would even be promoted for his excellent work. She might give Layton the position that she had been denied. The power was intoxicating, almost overwhelming.  
  
"Tomorrow. Definitely not at this hour, though. Perhaps a few hours earlier."  
  
And Hannibal knew exactly what she was thinking. His eyes were saying plainly to her, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Maybe not. Perhaps, like Hannibal, she would never know what it would lead to. But she was sure they'd have a lot of fun.  
  
Layton smiled broadly. "Great. Um, four o'clock tomorrow then? Would that be okay with you?"  
  
"Four would be fine, for whatever days you need."  
  
If Layton was puzzled by her sudden friendly attitude, he didn't let it show. He got up to leave, but before he could, Clarice was up and helping him toward the door, making sure he did not turn around. "Let me just show you the door, Agent Layton."  
  
  
  
Hannibal didn't like it. While no buffoon, Layton was nevertheless young and inexperienced. He knew that Clarice was more than capable of handling that man. Hannibal would leave on the afternoons and let Clarice spin the man around in circles. But he still couldn't shake away his little tendril of insecurity about the matter. He couldn't explain it, and he eventually forgot about it. There were more pressing events to take care of.  
  
The first event happened that evening. Hannibal unpacked his purchases: porcelain dishes, assorted fine cutlery, and various food items, and explained to Clarice what he wanted her to do. She took it rather well.  
  
"No freaking way."  
  
"I don't take disobedience well, Clarice," he said with a hint of a smile. "I would not ask this of you unless I knew you to be perfectly capable."  
  
"I told you, I can't cook worth a damn. I'd probably end up poisoning both of us."  
  
"Nonsense. Just follow my instructions. And we both know that you are quite skilled at that." Hannibal made sure he had everything he needed on the table. He had not missed the fact that Clarice had scrubbed the table clean, very nice job. That only increased his faith that she would accomplish the next task easily. Extremely sharp cheddar cheese, mushrooms, bell peppers, eggs, everything was there.  
  
Clarice edged a bit closer to the spread, as cautiously as if approaching a tar pit. "What exactly will I be attempting to make?"  
  
"The FIRST thing you will make is cheese soufflé. It's a very simple recipe." That was somewhat of a lie. Without the utmost care, the finished product would collapse into an unrecognizable mass. Soufflé was one of the most delicate foods to make, which was why he had decided on the recipe in the first place.  
  
"First we combine the flour, eggs, and cheese to make a roux."  
  
"Gesundheit."  
  
"Hardly amusing, Clarice. Pay attention." He set the preliminary mixture on the stove and then handed her six eggs to break. Clarice looked as if she had just been handed a live land mine and told to disarm it. She figured out how to break the eggs without mixing up the shells eventually and clumsily separated yolks from whites. When it came time to beat the egg yolks, Clarice did so gingerly as if afraid they might explode in her face.  
  
"Come on, Clarice. Harder than that," Hannibal said as he whipped the whites into a soft, snowy mountain. Then he smiled, "Here, imagine that the mixture is Mr. Krendler's head. Would you be that gentle?"  
  
That got her going. In less than thirty seconds, the yolks were a smooth puree and Clarice was ready to tackle the next task. Hannibal guided her through the entire process, helping less and less. As it became more and more easy for her, Clarice began to feel like she was floating on a cloud, a wonderful feeling of freedom that she had only experienced once before when she had peered into Agent Layton's mind.  
  
They feasted that night. The soufflé was light and airy, perfect in every way. As was the caviar, the honeyed scones, and beef ragout. Clarice was no longer on the cloud but she had not touched down. Somehow, she felt that she would never again touch down. She forgot how long she had spent cooking. Minutes, hours, she didn't know and found that she really didn't care. It was as if time didn't matter anymore.  
  
After it was over and Clarice was sitting in front of the table, she was more than a little surprised. "Are you sure I made all this?" The memory of the past few hours were blurry, as if part of a dream, but seemed to leave her with a sense of peace.  
  
"Of course, Clarice. I've been watching." Hannibal removed a nicely aged bottle of Château d'Yquem from the shopping bag. It had taken him three hours and a small fortune to find it, but it was a perfect complement to the meal.  
  
Hannibal raised the glass of golden liquid. "A toast. To you."  
  
"And to you."  
  
They smiled and drank together. 


	4. What Lies Beneath

Part IV  
  
What Lies Beneath  
  
  
Agent Layton arrived the next afternoon at 3:55 pm sharp. He had a tape recorder and a pad of paper for notes. He also had dark circles under his eyes. He had spent almost the entire night before rereading every piece of information on the Lecter case. After all, he didn't want to appear as a fool again. However, the Section Chief had commended him for getting the interview. Oh yes, good work, good boy, now here's a lollipop. The lollipop was a two-day vacation that he planned to take full advantage of.  
  
Clarice did not greet him with contempt or approval, but with a simple, "Good morning," before leading him into the living room. Hannibal had left roughly an hour ago, to where, she didn't know. When she'd asked, he merely smiled and stated how much he hated to spoil surprises.  
  
Layton managed to set up and start the tape recorder without major complications. "Okay, I'm going to start talking and you stop me anytime that I'm wrong. Hannibal Lecter has a degree in psychology. He practiced this profession for many years, unknowingly killing his patients and destroying their histories, before he was captured by Special Agent Will Graham."  
  
He paused to allow Clarice to speak, but she said nothing. He continued, "Lecter was then confined for eight years in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, from which he escaped four years ago. A certain Dr. Frederick Chilton's body was found in Jamaica not long after his escape. There have been no more reported Lecter-style murders since then. However, Lecter is still at large and considered extremely dangerous. This is where you come in, you seem to know Lecter more than anyone and you were the one he talked to in the hospital. He answered your questions, and that eventually led to the capture of serial killer Jame Gumb, better known as Buffalo Bill."  
  
"That's where you're wrong," Clarice said at last. "He didn't answer any of my questions, I doubt he even heard them. I answered HIS, and in return he gave me the clues I needed. Quid pro quo. It was a mutual agreement."  
  
Mutual agreement. Pact with the devil. Same thing, thought Layton. What he didn't say was that he had gotten his hands on the taped conversations between Starling and Lecter. If he had heard right, Lecter had ripped her life apart. Layton proceeded with caution, for he wasn't sure how much Starling was willing to talk about the matter.  
  
That was why he was surprised when Clarice continued talking. "If you want to catch him, you should ask about what I KNOW about him, not what he knew about me." Which was everything, Clarice thought. Which is also what I know about you. "I can tell you that he savors the arts. He would most likely be living in a place like, oh, maybe South America, certainly not anywhere in the U.S. We're all victims of culture shock here."  
  
Layton was jotting down notes frantically, trying to keep up with her. Then he stopped her mid-sentence. "Wait, I want to make sure that you feel safe saying all this. Since he knows you pretty well, I'm hoping that your help doesn't backfire on you."  
  
"He promised he wouldn't call on me. Hannibal always keeps his promises, and so do I. I promised to fulfill my duties as an FBI agent."  
  
The rest of the interview went smoothly. Clarice neither gave away too much, or too little. And Layton left the house an hour later no less confused than he already was.  
  
She seemed sincere enough, and the information would please the FBI, but he wasn't satisfied. He knew Clarice had every reason not to say too much. Whenever he got close to asking something too personal, Clarice subtly changed the subject, opening doors that led to new doors, until eventually he forgot how the discussion had started.  
  
However, the information had eliminated several countries from the search, so it was satisfactory for the day's work. Still, he couldn't be too careful, he decided. Layton walked to a nearby deli and ordered a sandwich. After he finished his dinner, he used the shop's pay phone to place a call to Baltimore.  
  
------------------------  
  
Hannibal arrived back home at 6 pm sharp. He thought about that as he walked through the front door; I hadn't been two days and he was already thinking of it as home. A small, dirty duplex, but it was home. At least, it would serve as one until he could make other plans. If everything went well, they would both have much better luck.  
  
But as he walked through the hallway and sensed the wonderful aromas of dinner, he stopped and paused to inhale the heavenly scents. There was no question who would be cooking from now on. Clarice looked up as he entered the kitchen and a wide grin broke out on her face although she tried to hide it.  
  
"Welcome home, did you bring me a present?"  
  
Hannibal removed his jacket and crossed over to her to stand by her side. He chose to ignore her question. "Clarice, your skills astonish even me. What smells so good?"  
  
"It's a surprise. I dug out some of Ardelia's old cookbooks. Back off!" she said as Hannibal reached forward for a taste. "You don't get any unless you brought me a present."  
  
Hannibal wrapped his arms around Clarice's waist from behind and whispered in her ear. "I have that covered, my dear. I have two presents for you. One will be arriving in approximately two weeks. The other...you'll find out tonight."  
  
"Oh really, and what would that be?" said Clarice, still trying to hide a smile.  
  
"It's a surprise," said Hannibal, before placing a kiss on her cheek.  
  
"Hmm...well I suppose I'll have to take your word on that. Dinner's ready." Clarice swept the pot off the stove and headed over to the table. Hannibal was about follow her when he paused. He looked at her intently, Clarice had her back to him and could not see him.  
  
He sensed something...something different about her. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but it touched off some neurons in his brain stem and made him aware of the subtle change. Again, he couldn't explain it, but it sent a shudder of joy through his body. Should he tell her about it? No, it was most likely nothing except his joy and sense of closure. He might have finally found what he wanted in life. Hannibal joined Clarice at the table to satiate his appetite.  
  
And in bed afterwards, a long time afterwards, they lay still, trying to catch their breath. Then Clarice asked, "What's going to happen to us?"  
  
Hannibal turned to face her. "What do you mean?" He knew exactly what she meant, but he asked anyway.  
  
Clarice knew that he knew but she answered his question. "I mean our future. We're not exactly the world's model couple and nobody would approve, nobody would understand. As long as you stay here, you're endangering your life and I'm endangering mine."  
  
"Do you remember that I told you that I had two presents for you?"  
  
"Hmmm, yes. I received one of them already."  
  
"I hope that I can give you the other one...away from here."  
  
Clarice knew exactly what he meant and she thought, but only for a split second. "In Europe, perhaps?"  
  
"Most likely. Florence should be particularly lovely this time of the year. Have you ever been there?"  
  
"I've never even been out of this country."  
  
"Well, then that problem needs to be fixed. If you're willing of course."  
  
Clarice edged closer and laid her head on Hannibal's chest, letting her head rise and fall with his breaths. "There's nothing left for me here. Florence sounds wonderful."  
  
"Nothing...except Agent Layton, am I correct? Why do you help him? Or at least pretend to?"  
  
"I guess...I guess he reminds me of me. After all, you didn't HAVE to help me either. You could just have easily let that girl die."  
  
Clarice tried to put arm around Hannibal, but he pulled back. "What makes you think I could have let her die any more than you could? After all, Billy had been a very naughty boy. Tell me." He stroked her cheek teasingly with one finger.  
  
"I guess it's because I'm still very much the same person I was four years ago. I feel about things the same way, because of the lambs. If I can let this one person succeed, it might be worth all the grief that the FBI caused me."  
  
"You do realize that he will end up working for the FBI, the place that hates you?"  
  
"True, but the FBI hated you, too. They hated you because they could not understand you. Yet, you helped them by helping me."  
  
"Let me ask you a question, Clarice. Are you doing this all for yourself, or for the girl that died in the shootout? Are you trying to redeem the FBI or yourself?"  
  
His words made her head spin. She had often thought about it, but the truth of it was..."I don't know. I really don't know." She leaned closer to Hannibal, the one who tested her and comforted her at the same time. She reached for him and this time he returned the embrace.  
  
"Peace. There is plenty of time to figure out who you are. But now, the night is still young." Hannibal had the wicked, playful grin on his face again.  
  
Clarice smiled. Already she could feel her worries being left far behind. "Bring it on."  
  
-----------------------  
  
Frank Bowman had been Michael Layton's friend for as long as he could remember. They had gone through school and college together, but when Layton had started training with the FBI, they had gone their separate ways. Bowman had attempted the Academy for almost half a year before he dropped out. Not long enough to develop any true appreciation for the law, but enough to perfect his impeccable shooting hand. Layton had never asked him why, although Bowman had frequently displayed his contempt for the FBI.  
  
This did not affect their friendship in any apparent way. Bowman still respected Layton and had even attended his graduation fro the Academy, although he had stood in the back. And now Bowman still did not have a job, but merely drifted from one place to another, earning money when he could. A wiry, black-haired man, Bowman was happy with his life and never missed the chance to ridicule Layton about their differences.  
So that evening, when Layton paid a visit to Bowman in his three-room apartment in Baltimore following the arrangement over the phone, he got the usual greeting.  
  
"Hey G-man. What's happening?"  
  
"Chasing a serial killer for the FBI, Frank. And how was your day?"  
  
Frank laughed and retrieved a cigarette from a countertop. "Still running around with that nut squad? You should've given it up a long time ago, Mike. It'll bring you nothing but misery."  
  
Layton was used to his friend's constant ribbing about his job. Perhaps one of the reasons they had been friends for so long was because of their differences. Bowman was a fun, life-loving person, but when it came time to do a job he did so with the utmost diligence and seriousness. He was extremely smart, although he tried to hide it all the time.  
  
As for Layton, there was only one side to him. The ambitious climber. Sometimes this made him rather close-minded and that was the reason he had come to see Bowman. Layton needed a second opinion of someone he could trust. Forget his fellow agents, they were merely obstacles and his superiors were tools. Although he was still naïve and inexperienced, Layton was beginning to realize the Bureau's game and was willing to play it, if it meant advancement. Sometimes it meant taking drastic action on your own, he thought.  
  
Layton sat down at the coffee table and placed the tape recorder on it. "I want you to listen to something for me..."  
  
"Whoa, whoa, wait, Mike. If this has something to do with THEM, then you better promise that I won't get any attention from them."  
  
"Of course, Frank, I know." Layton started the tape of the interview.  
  
Bowman listened to the entire thing with eyes half-closed, intently focused. His previous jocular attitude had been dropped when it had come time to do the job. After the tape was finished, Bowman sat back in the sofa, puffing away on the cigarette, thinking.  
  
"I don't know what it is, but something just doesn't seem right. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid," said Layton.  
  
Bowman removed the cigarette from his mouth and blew a gray cloud toward the ceiling. "Well, I can't help you with your paranoia, Mike, but there is definitely something below the surface here."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"How well did Starling get to know Lecter?"  
  
"Mutual agreement, she says."  
  
"Right, now this is what bothers me." Bowman rewinded the tape to a certain time and pushed play.  
  
"Hannibal always keeps his promises, and so do I..." said the tape. Bowman pushed the stop button.  
  
"Maybe they had a mutual agreement or even respect for each other, but I don't trust people who are on first-name basis with serial killers. This might be looking too deep, but it's still something to watch out for," said Bowman.  
  
"So what does this mean?"  
  
"She's lying about something, maybe everything. She could be trying to protect herself or..." Bowman let his sentence hang.  
  
Layton shook his head in disbelief. "Oh no, you're not saying that she..." Layton couldn't believe it, but he was smart enough to consider Bowman's words. Bowman had always been more observant than him.  
  
Bowman took another drag from his cigarette. "There have been cases where hostages have fallen in love with their captors. They have rejected all aspects of their old life, including the family members trying to save them. They become a new person, an extremely twisted person with little or no hope of recovery. All I'm saying is that I wouldn't trust her. You can never be too careful because you never know what someone in this situation might do." He paused. "Or maybe I'm just being paranoid."  
  
Layton got up to leave. Bowman had told him to be careful and he had never led him wrong before. He would keep it in mind. He wasn't sure whether or not to act on it yet, but..."Thank you, Frank. You know I've said this before, but you would have done really well in the FBI."  
  
A deep throaty laugh erupted from Bowman's lips. "Oh no, Mike. No, I wouldn't have." 


	5. Crossroads

Part V  
  
Crossroads  
  
  
The next, and last, interview with Agent Layton was not scheduled until two weeks later. For Clarice, this time was pure heaven. Hannibal taught her everything she wanted to know: harpsichord, piano, Vermeer, Dante, French, Latin, Italian, you name it, Hannibal knew it and gave it all to Clarice's eager mind. He had never had such a willing pupil. She even received a crash course in disguises and face alterations. They would need them once they got to Florence. Hannibal had several bank accounts in Europe, all under different names. He had Clarice memorize the names and codes for every account.  
  
The difference surrounding Clarice did not go away. Hannibal felt it every time they drew close, and it grew stronger every day: a deep, tingling sensation like electricity. Once when this happened, Clarice shivered and drew closer to him in bed.  
  
"What is it, my dear?"  
  
"Nothing. I just got a chill. Everything felt so cold all of a sudden, like something terrible was going to happen and I can't do anything to stop it."  
  
"Do you want me to call a doctor?" he teased.  
  
"No, just...hold me." So he held her and the matter was forgotten in the morning.  
  
--------------------  
  
Special Agent Michael Layton had been promoted to the rank of sergeant in return for the "excellent information" he had received on Hannibal Lecter. The yellow stripes that were sewn into his jacket were the envy of every fellow agent in his section. They all knew that Layton had graduated from Academy a mere two weeks ago, yet he was already climbing the bureaucratic ladder.  
  
And as a result, Layton had become slightly more than obsessed with the Lecter case. It became an all-consuming passion, because after all, it was what had lifted him to his current position which he had every intention of keeping. He listened and relistened to tapes of old evidence: Lecter and Starling, Lecter and Raspail, Lecter and...the list was endless. Read and reread the case file.  
  
Gradually, without his realization, he was becoming different. His original motives for the case, curiosity and justice, yes, maybe even a little bit of justice, seemed like strangers to him. He was no longer sure what to tell his old moral system when it beckoned for reason. He was blind to everything except the consuming goal of advancement. Maybe he had a heart once, but now it was all gone. Sacrificed in the never-ending battle for fame and glory. This realization had been rather sudden and Layton had not yet totally accepted it, so no one who looked into his eyes could tell.  
  
"You get used to it," responded Bowman when Layton went to him for advice. His ever-present cigarette was wedged between his teeth as he explained. "When everything you once believed in seems to be turning around on you and you're not sure what to think anymore. That's called change, Mike, and you can't avoid that, no matter how hard you try. Tread carefully. You may get into some deep crap before you even know it, especially with this case you're working on now. Although I still don't understand why you insist on working for..."  
  
Bowman's word's faded away as Layton pondered what to do next. Starling wasn't to be trusted completely, but truth was, he still needed her information. He decided to trust his instincts to tell him what to believe and what to ignore. And if that didn't work, there were other methods.  
  
And so, when Layton was once again sitting in front of Clarice with the tape recorder rolling, he decided not to ask her about the first-name issue. If he didn't know for sure, better to not bring it up at all. What he did instead was not any smarter.  
  
"I trust you are quite familiar with the newspaper stories about your relationship with Dr. Lecter? The whole "Bride of Frankenstein" deal?"  
  
"I'm not responsible for what they say."  
  
"Fair enough. But things would go a lot smoother if you were completely honest with me. Off the record. You have no obligation to be, but I would certainly appreciate it."  
  
Layton pushed the stop button on the tape recorder. He paused to let Clarice respond, but she didn't seem to be planning to. She merely sat with a sort of faraway look in her eyes.  
  
"Could I at least have a drink?" After all, they had been sitting for an hour.  
  
Brief silence. Then, "Of course. Come." She led him into the kitchen and he stood by while she almost absently mixed a cup of coffee for him. Although he could not see it, her mind was very much active. It seemed that the FBI had believed the information she had given two weeks ago, Clarice thought. She had seen the stripes on Layton's shoulders. Could not miss the fact that he had been promoted. But he was still here, still ambitious. Hmmm...it would be difficult to find out what else could feed that ambition. Because in a few days, she would be...so far away.  
  
Then her mind shifted to what he had said. Those tabloids. Didn't give a damn whose life they ruined as long as they had a story. They had milked the Sherman incident for all it was worth. With those thoughts came the chill again, almost a deep, foreboding sense of evil, and Clarice swayed on her feet. "Stay there a minute," she said to Layton before heading to the bathroom for Tylenol. The drug rid her of the headache but could not stop her shivering.  
  
She stood there a moment, with her head against the mirror, her breath fogging the glass. The chill ran through her body again, and her body shook. For a moment she considered calling off the interview, but changed her mind. Layton would get suspicious. And besides, there were some things she needed to say to him before she left. She returned to the kitchen to find Layton crouching by the refrigerator, furiously scrubbing a coffee stain from the floor with a mounting pile of paper towels. "Ms. Starling, I'm so sorry..."  
  
Clarice almost ignored the mess completely as every neuron of her brain was intently focused on one thing. "Agent Layton, let me ask you something. Off the record. What do YOU think my relationship with Hannibal Lecter is? Purely your opinion, please."  
  
Layton paused, for he knew that Starling did not want a simple answer to this question. "Your profile on Lecter is incredible. I've read it from cover to cover several times over. You don't try to dissect him or explain his actions, it's all civil opinion. And respect, I guess. Both of you have a deep respect for the other." Mention what he heard in the tape? No.  
  
Clarice smiled coyly. "Is that it? No suspicions of romantic attachments to the infamous serial killer?"  
  
"No." Layton answered so quickly that he did not give himself any time to think. No time for his thought process to be displayed on his face. His promptness might have saved his life. More words came out of his mouth, none of them planned, pondered over, or predictable. "The media wants food for thought and the tabloids deliver."  
  
"Hmm...would you like another cup of coffee?"  
  
The final interview went smoothly enough. Nothing learned, nothing lost. If everything went well, Layton could submit his report to the FBI in a week, and then they could begin their sweep of South America. Maybe the United States as well. You could never be too careful.  
  
  
A little while later, Hannibal entered the house silently, his purchase held in one hand in front of him. It had taken him over two hours to choose and there had been the waiting period of two weeks, but now it was finally in his hands. He walked slowly to kitchen, careful not to make any unnecessary noises. It had to be a surprise for Clarice.  
  
The object of his desire was standing in the kitchen wondering what she should prepare for dinner that night when she felt a light touch at her elbow. Clarice nearly jumped out of her skin. No matter how many times Hannibal entered the house, he would never lose his penchant for surprise entrances. After the shock was over, she got mad. She whirled around to face him, ready to tell him off, and then stopped cold. Her mouth just quit working as she gaped at the sight before her.  
  
The dress was cream-colored, lavishly tailored out of expensive silk with rubies the color of blood set here and there in tantalizing patterns. Clarice could not take her eyes off it. It was some time before she noticed the holder of the dress.  
  
Hannibal laughed. "Do you like it?"  
  
Clarice's mouth gaped open and closed several times like a goldfish before she could find her breath. "It's--it's beautiful. Hannibal--how--I've never seen a dress so beautiful. Is it, is it for me?"  
  
"No, for some other love of my life. Yes, it's for you, Clarice." A slight disturbance as the refrigerator started roaring, expelling heat in warm currents of air. "As are these," Hannibal continued as he drew out two plane tickets from his jacket pocket. "Two first-class tickets to Florence, Italy, departing in four days. One way, under the names of Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson."  
  
It was as if all her dreams had come true. "Oh my--thank you, Hannibal, thank you so much--." It was too much to keep to herself, and she didn't try. She threw her arms around him and covered his face with kisses.  
  
It was some time before Hannibal could regain his composure. In that time, the refrigerator quieted again and they were once more at peace. "I thought it would be a fitting gift. Don't be too happy, yet. I still need to purchase the complementary gifts..." His words fell upon dead ears and eventually he gave it up and returned Clarice's kisses, before carrying her and the dress upstairs.  
  
  
However, a mile away, sitting inside a parked car in a deserted lot, someone was listening VERY intently. Almost refusing to believe what he was hearing, Layton adjusted his headphones. He waited until all sounds had faded before rewinding the tape and playing it over and over again until he had to accept it. He sat back in his car seat, running his fingers through his hair. This was a little too much to take in at one moment.   
  
He let it sink in slowly before playing the tape again and listening even more carefully. One part bothered him to no end. In his haste that afternoon, he had had no time to properly place the electronic bug that Bowman had given him (heaven knows how Bowman had laid his hands on THAT). When Layton had heard Starling returning to the kitchen from the bathroom, the best he could do was hurriedly place the bug underneath the refrigerator while pretending to spill his coffee.  
  
And now, the unwelcome roar and clatter of escaping heat drowned Lecter's words in mid-sentence. What Layton wouldn't give to have heard what had been said. He had a feeling it would have been very important.  
  
As for the bug, Bowman had insisted on it, knowing it was the only way to get Layton what he wanted. The FBI? He needn't tell them. In the time that it would take to get an order legalizing the use of electronic surveillance, it would be too late. If what Bowman thought was true, they didn't have a lot of time left. At long last, Agent Layton had reluctantly agreed, and now he was glad he had let his friend talk him into it.   
  
So the "Beauty and the Beast" stories were true. But...after their discussion that afternoon, he knew it was more than that. It was true enough that he didn't agree with the mainstream ideas. What did he think really, though?  
  
Layton knew it had always been reported that Lecter had not lost his mind in the state hospital, not like so many others. He had a strong spirit, made stronger still by the fact that he was not held back by the ethical restraints that governed society. Starling had been destroyed by the very symbol of law in the country, the FBI. Maybe Starling had found a type of morbid peace with Hannibal Lecter. Persephone wished to remain in the Underworld forever. Everything was always more complicated than it looked.  
  
It didn't matter. All this was shoved aside quickly by a prospect. Hannibal Lecter! In the States! And a mere mile from where he sat now. Forget sergeant, if he managed to take him in, it might boost him to the sectional chief level.  
  
What to do now? The first thought that came to mind was to inform the FBI of his success. Then he remembered the means he had used to gain the information. Of course, he couldn't let them know that he had resorted to illegal means. That was a perfectly legitimate reason. Then the green-eyed monster of jealousy and pride roared in like a storm. He would keep it to himself, he knew, because he wanted it to be HIS victory and his alone. The FBI probably wouldn't care how Lecter had been captured as long as he was apprehended. And the rewards...Layton could barely imagine. But he would need help, and only from the one he could trust completely. Layton shifted his car into drive and began the now familiar trip to Baltimore in the dead of night.  
  
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Three days later, Hannibal was standing inside the small jewelry shop, his fingers running slowly across the display cases. He had discovered this place a week ago and made a mental note. This evening, he had left Clarice in the house to take care of last-minute packing while he made his way to the shop. The store was small and empty, so few people able to afford its contents. Or perhaps because it was such a well-kept secret. The store was well stocked but tucked away carefully in a now silent strip of other shops.  
  
Hannibal had the entire store to himself. He had been standing at the counter for over an hour, pondering a decision while the manager behind the cash register had been getting more and more agitated. Hannibal let his eyes roam over every piece in the display case once again before returning to one. Rubies set in white gold, it was a perfect match for Clarice's dress. He paused for one more moment, taking in the beauty of the piece, before raising his finger to the greatly relieved store manager.  
  
He paid cash for the purchase and tucked the brown paper package safely away into his coat pocket. He turned toward the door, savoring the reception he would receive once he returned home.  
  
And from the mouth of an alley several yards away, unbeknownst to Hannibal, Frank Bowman watched his every move. 


	6. Darkness Falls

Part VI  
  
Darkness Falls  
  
  
Frank Bowman stood outside the jewelry shop, immobile as a statue. Nothing moved except his eyes and they probed every inch of the shop until they landed on Hannibal Lecter at the checkout counter. He could see nothing except the side of Lecter's face, but he knew it was him. Like his friend, Bowman had read every piece on Lecter he could get hold of, which was whatever Layton could provide him with. Bowman couldn't exactly waltz into the FBI and start looking through files.  
  
He felt he knew Lecter, or at least a mere sketch of his mind. He could never claim to know everything about the man, but he could know of his habits. From the information gathered from Layton's electronic bug, he figured out what Lecter meant by "complementary gifts." It had taken him merely a set of phone calls to find the most expensive jewelry shop in the city, and now he was here.  
  
Bowman lit a cigarette as he stepped away from the shop and backtracked the possible path Lecter would take once exiting the shop. He found a rather deserted alley along the way, with a clear view of the brightly lit shop, and stopped right by the entrance.  
  
He puffed away on the cigarette as he waited, and pondered what Layton had mentioned so many times. About the Bureau and himself. Yes, the FBI could certainly have used his skills, but they could not have used a person like him. Bowman had never told Layton why he had dropped out of the Academy, because he wanted his friend to continue pursuing his dream. If the Bureau worked for Layton, fine, but it did not work for him.  
  
The FBI was a big fake-out to him. Bowman had entered Academy, ready to destroy the wrongdoers and protect the innocent. He expected to be taught how to do it. Instead, he had received six months instruction on laws, procedures, and loopholes that criminals would use to dodge the justice system. Only his days on the firing range had given him any relief, and eventually, even those had not been enough to keep him in the Academy. Now he was out of the FBI with a drastically changed set of morals. What was law? A bunch of words written on paper.  
  
Therefore, when Layton had told him to apprehend Lecter because "he was the only one skilled enough for the job, " Bowman had other plans. Maybe now he could finally knock off a wrongdoer. After all, Lecter was just a criminal, no matter how smart. The world would be so much better off without this extra serial killer running around.  
  
So he had his pistol, a trusty six-chamber handgun that had served him well many times on the firing range. He leaned against the brick wall of the alley and kept his eyes on the jewelry shop. He would wait, bide his time. He had waited years for this moment, he could surely wait a few minutes more.  
  
As Lecter turned to leave, Bowman caught the flicker of movement in the window and quickly put out his cigarette, crushing it underneath his foot. He stepped back around the corner and removed the small pistol from the inside of his jacket and snapped open the chamber. Two bullets. He pushed it back into place and cocked the gun. His quarry would be coming around the corner any moment.  
  
He knew who he was up against. Layton had warned him over and over again about the danger of this man, although Bowman thought it had been quite unnecessary. Lecter was a man after all, and he could die just like any other man.  
  
Soft footsteps coming toward him now. Bowman poised, ready, and at the right moment stepped out from around the corner, handgun held at perfect head height. And then he made his big mistake. He looked into Lecter's eyes. A wave of dread washed over him. Bowman's gun finger was perfectly trained and pulled the trigger at exactly the right instant. His arm was not so disciplined and spasmed along with the rest of his body as the deathly calm pools of red penetrated every cell of his body.  
  
The bullet did not completely miss Lecter. It tore through his abdomen and rearranged his insides before hitting the opposite alley wall, the shot had been so close. Lecter stood frozen still for one second before pitching forward and falling to the ground. It happened so fast, he had not had time to change his expression to one of surprise.  
  
Hannibal Lecter lay facedown on the ground, still as death, and Bowman gingerly stepped toward him. So this was the infamous murderer. Still, he had to make sure. With one hand, he turned Lecter over on his back. Maroon eyes stared unblinkingly, accusingly into his face. Bowman recoiled like a snake and, with a shaking hand, removed his knife from his belt. He would put those eyes out forever. Perhaps then, he might have peace.  
  
He leaned over the body, knife poised. Right before the knife tip reached the face it sought, the eyes blinked. And before Bowman knew what was happening, a hand flashed into view from his right side and grasped his hand holding the knife with astonishing strength.  
  
Anger was boiling in Lecter's eyes, raging, out of control, and Bowman thought he was looking into hell itself. He screamed, hardly aware of Lecter's unrelenting power forcing the knife back toward his face. His free hand fumbled around on the ground for the handgun, maybe he might be able to get off a shot in time...  
  
And then the eyes were upon him. Bowman didn't realize that he was still screaming at the top of his lungs. He felt consumed by the fires, burned alive. He was screaming so loudly that he didn't even realize when the knife entered his neck and ripped his throat open. It all seemed to be happening to somebody else. Didn't realize, that is, until his vocal cords were drowned in blood and no more sound escaped his lips. Those eyes were the last things he ever saw.  
  
Hannibal moved the dead weight off his body and got to his feet slowly, allowing his legs to regain control of his body. Only by the slightest of chances did the bullet miss his spine, instead it had gone right through his side. And, feeling his lower back gently, Hannibal discovered the enormous exit wound.  
  
There was a lightness in his head as he felt blood draining rapidly out of his body. Rapidly. It had been so sudden, he had not prepared for it. And now, now...the thought that he might die seemed an annoyance more than anything else. He couldn't die; he needed to give Clarice her gift, they needed to move to Europe, they needed to start over, they needed to have children together, they needed to live together, they needed to live...Death was such an inconvenience.  
  
Fear tried to invade his mind, but all that came was Clarice's face, her beautiful eyes filled every inch of his mind and pushed the fear out of the way. And then he realized that he knew what it was that was different about her, had known it all along, but had not said it out loud, for fear that it would slip away as quickly as it had come.  
  
He couldn't stay in the alley. It was rather deserted and separated from the main road, but someone would have heard the shot, not to mention the screams. The pain from the wound increased as Hannibal slowly removed his jacket. He paused, filtering the pain away, until it had died into numbness. Pain was unnecessary, it could be dealt with later. Bowman's knife was still embedded in his neck, so Lecter carefully removed his Harpy from his shirt pocket. Two quick slashes and a long cloth strip was cut from the jacket. He tied the strip around his waist, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.  
  
He could not stop it entirely, but it would prevent him from leaving an evident trail back home. That was where he was going, he needed to return home. Although, if an assassin had been hired to kill him, chances were they knew where he lived. In that case, he needed to warn Clarice. He could not walk fast, so he kept to the shadows. Although he could not feel the pain of the wound, his body reacted to it and turned his legs into leaden blocks.  
  
Slowly, but surely, with the brown package clutched tightly in his hand, Hannibal Lecter returned home to his Clarice.  
  
----------------  
  
Clarice looked up as she heard the doorknob rattling. There was a difference in Hannibal's steps. They were slower, heavier. Her mind ignored that completely as she raced happily toward the door. When she reached him, Hannibal was leaning against the doorjamb of the living room, but still standing firmly on his feet. The door to the kitchen was closed.  
  
He smiled as he saw her. "Hello, Clarice." Then he stepped forward and sank into her shocked arms. Her mind frozen in stillness, Clarice lowered him to the carpet. One arm was wrapped around his waist and as she felt the wound, Clarice jerked back as if she had been struck. It was everyone's worst nightmare. Clarice stared unbelievingly at the blood staining her fingertips, and her eyes met Hannibal's. Her legs turned to water and buckled underneath her as she collapsed beside him on the floor.  
  
His face was paling from lack of blood, but his eyes still looked strongly upon her face. "Clarice, I'm sorry."  
  
"No, I'll get you to a hospital, you're going to be alright..." And all the while, she was thinking, it's all my fault, I did this, I did this, it's all my goddamn fault...  
  
She reached for him, but Hannibal waved her hands away with the one arm that still moved. "Clarice, you need to get away, they'll be coming here soon. You know--you know everything you need. I wish I could be there, but..."  
  
"Don't talk like that, you're going to be alright, you're going to be okay, you have to be." Her eyes were full of tears that fell from her face like sparkling jewels.  
  
"I love you so much, Clarice...I just wanted you to know that." His hand grasped hers, fingers entwining like the bodies of lovers. Clarice could find nothing to say, she could only bury her face in his shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. After awhile, she pulled back, her face streaked with tears and blood.  
  
Hannibal smiled and gazed up into Clarice's face, already retreating away. Something rose up in his throat and he swallowed it down with great difficulty. How much blood had he lost? Two quarts? Three? He did not feel afraid, had not since that time so many years ago, when he had realized that fear was wasteful. It ate away at your soul and consumed you, filling every inch of your body and blocking so many other emotions, more important emotions. He had no room for it now. His hand in hers caressed her skin softly.  
  
Then he saw her other hand go for his shirt pocket. It came away holding his Harpy knife, already stained red through his shirt by his blood. The winking blade beckoned seductively to her white skin. He knew, but he could not let that happen. Hannibal returned to himself in that instant and his grip on her hand tightened. "Don't you dare, Clarice."  
  
Clarice was gasping with sobs. "I couldn't...I couldn't go on without you."  
  
"Clarice..." Hannibal mustered up every reserve of strength his body had left to offer. His eyes were blazing. The last brilliant gasp of a fire before it is extinguished. "Clarice, you can't do this. Not for me. Not for anyone."  
  
Pain, horrible ruthless pain was radiating from her heart to every inch of her body. How many times could she watch someone die in her arms? Her father, the girl, and now Hannibal...The thought of the crushing loneliness that would follow...no, she wouldn't accept it, wouldn't live with it. "Hannibal, you saw what I was without you. I won't live like that again. I need you."  
  
Hannibal shook his head, his pain-wracked body protesting at every movement. He ignored it. "No, Clarice. You don't. It's always been you. That strength...that strength that you have, it all comes from you. I only set it free." He gazed into her tear-streaked eyes with something like fierce pride. "You are a warrior, Clarice. You are my only love, my light, my warrior..."  
  
"No, I'm not. No, I'm not. Look at me. Please don't leave me--"  
  
"You are a warrior," he repeated. He gazed into her tear-streaked face and thought she had never looked more beautiful. It was time to tell her. This would be all the time he would ever have.  
  
"And...you are even more than yourself." Hannibal lifted his hand from hers and let it rest gently against her abdomen. He felt the tingling electricity again before it swelled into a deep, pulsating beat of life.  
  
Clarice looked on in disbelief. "How--how do you know?"  
  
"I feel it. You have life in your body, Clarice. We created it, you hold it, now live Clarice. Live for me, for you...and for the child. Please...promise me."  
  
The chills, the aching, the suffering. All for this, this miracle. Joy amidst unbearable pain and grief. A thousand conflicting emotions, somehow all co-existing. It made no sense. "I promise...oh Hannibal, I love you so much." She bent her head and kissed him, softly, their lips whispering like forbidden lovers.  
  
"You are my angel, Clarice." Then Hannibal drew away, until he seemed to be floating outside his body. He did not shudder or shake. Time slowed to a crawl. The pain was not so bad now. Like the blood draining out of his body, consciousness slowly slipped from his mind.  
  
Hannibal forced a small smile as tears fell from Clarice's beautiful face. He would not cry, though, not now. Not ever. He would stay strong for his Clarice. His field of vision was rapidly dimming, closing on Clarice's eyes. Beautiful blue pools of light full of sparkling tears like diamonds. Hannibal's unseeing maroon eyes stayed open for a moment more, beckoning, willing her to remember them forever. Then they closed and far, far away, Hannibal heard a child's laugh, clear and joyful.  
  
Clarice draped herself over him, her tears mixing with his blood. Her hands shook as the useless blade slipped from her fingers. Time would move on for her. But now she cried, trembled, wept for her love. After a moment, she noticed the brown package, now stained the color of rust, still clutched in Hannibal's left hand.  
  
She opened it with shaking fingers and before she drew it out, she saw a flash of red. Hardly daring to hope, she drew the necklace out into the light. But no, of all the rubies that made up the necklace, magnificent though they were, none of them reflected the deep maroon of his eyes. Instead each and every one of them was a bright, vibrant red. They emitted joy and an eternal happiness of which humans were not capable. A quivering iron hand was squeezing her heart, agonizing but bearable. And so she wept, beaten but not broken. 


	7. Only the Beginning

Part VII  
  
Only the Beginning  
  
  
Only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. --Martin Luther King, Jr.  
......  
  
  
The darkened house was waiting. Devoid of light or life, the quiet rooms of the duplex held an air of anticipation. A soft wind ruffled the white curtains through a half-open window. The soft sheets of linen billowed and danced like ghosts in the light breeze. The house was empty, still, and almost silent but for the soft chatter of a police radio outside. Moving through the hall now, past the staircase and into the living room, where the entire mood changes. Completely filled by men in blue and yellow, opening drawers, probing corners, and by all means giving a wide berth to the scarlet pool staining the carpet in the middle of the floor. Flashbulbs popped over and over as every inch of the room was photographed.  
  
Sergeant Layton ran his hand gently across the coffee table, feeling the soft wood with his fingertips, before kneeling by the stain and taking out his knife. He would send samples of the blood to the lab to determine the origin, although there was hardly any need. FBI agents were already treading around it as if it were poison. They had followed the blood trail to the house to find it deserted, but by no means unfriendly. Every door had been flung wide open and there was even a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter with "Help yourself" written neatly on a note card beside the tray. The cookies were currently being analyzed for toxins.  
  
Layton had arrived at the scene before anybody else. The other agents were occupied over the body of Frank Bowman found in an alley. It had been some time before the FBI could get bloodhounds to track Lecter's path. And there was so much blood all round, that the trail was hard to follow and even more impossible to find. Layton, of course, could not tell them where to go but had arrived at the house in time to remove the electronic bug and destroy all evidence of its existence.  
  
The surrounding neighborhood was being scoured for the bodies of Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. Layton could have told the agents not to bother with one of the bodies, but he had said nothing, allowing them to hold out the hope that perhaps it wasn't true. That maybe Starling had not done the unthinkable.  
  
Layton finished cutting out a red square of carpet and dropped it gingerly into a plastic evidence bag. Lecter was most likely dead, and Layton felt emptiness inside his body eating away like a disease. He had betrayed and been betrayed in return. And now his best friend was dead. He refused to believe that Bowman had purposely killed Lecter after he had warned him specifically not to. An FBI agent, about five years older than Layton, walked up to him with a hand radio. "One of our scouts just phoned in. Starling's Mustang was found abandoned in a ditch a few miles from here."  
  
Layton sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Put out a description of Starling and canvass for any reports of stolen vehicles."  
  
"You think she's still alive, sir?" He noticed the difficulty the man had in saying the word "sir".  
  
"I don't think, I KNOW, agent. As should you, that is, if you weren't all busy burying your heads in the sand," he snapped bitterly, as much out of irritation as a sense of failure. Starling could be anywhere on the continent by now. Those idiots had taken too much time.  
  
Layton was so engrossed in thought that he did not notice the phone ringing until the agent tapped him on the shoulder. The tracers got into place and started their equipment as Layton carefully picked up the portable phone from its cradle on the coffee table, not knowing that it was the same phone used by Clarice so many weeks ago on that fateful night.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
A soft rumbling sound from the other side of the line, like that of a car engine, before the voice came, "Don't bother with a trace, I won't be on long enough." She didn't sound worried or hurried, but spoke with a matter-of-fact tone that made Layton uncomfortable despite himself.  
  
"Where are you, Starling?"  
  
"I do hope you enjoyed those cookies. I set them out especially for you. It's Agent Layton, right? Oh, I'm sorry, SERGEANT Layton. How did your promotion feel? Was it everything you wanted?"  
  
"Starling--."  
  
"No, you listen. I talk. Otherwise, this conversation will be over. Got that? Very well. I know the press will destroy what little remains of my reputation. I will go down in history as the Bride of Frankenstein, toted on the shoulders of the tabloids like the queen of fools. Well, Agent Layton, that is most unfair. The whole world should know the real story, it should be told in newspapers around the world. Respected printings, mind you. The truth deserves to be known. Or have you also sold out to the empty scruples of righteousness of what has become of the FBI? I figured as much." She paused for his reply.  
  
"I can't promise that. Turn yourself in and I might consider--."  
  
"No, no, Michael." Layton shivered as he heard his first name uttered. "There's no negotiating in this matter. Either you will or you won't. You know the truth. Use it as you will. The TRUTH, Michael. Do you still remember what the word means? Or maybe you might be more interested to know that I'm driving along a rural interstate on my way to West Virginia in a stolen Toyota Camry license plate number 3756XP."  
  
"Really, Starling? That's interesting to know--."  
  
"No, not really. But wouldn't life be easier if everything were that simple? It's not that simple, Agent Layton. And it never will be no matter how hard you try to change that. The newspapers won't be able to decipher the true story unless you let them know. And if you don't, you'll always have this taped conversation. You could get rid of it, of course, but see what the public will do. They find out, they always do. Checkmate, Michael."  
  
"Starling, stop running. You'll never get away. It's OVER."  
  
Clarice laughed, the sound crisp and mocking over the phone. "There are some things I could tell the FBI about YOU, you know. Over, agent? I think not. In fact, it's only the beginning. I might have plans of calling on you. Ta-ta, Michael. Sleep well."  
  
"Star--." Click. The phone went dead in his hands. Layton whirled around to the tracers. "Well?"  
  
"No good. Three seconds more and we would have had her. I'm sorry."  
  
Layton's hands shook as he replaced the phone in its cradle. Already, the tendrils of fear were beginning to creep over his body. For all the rest of his life, he would be looking over his shoulder, paranoid, never able to have a normal existence. His fingers traced the sergeant's stripes on his shoulders, thin pieces of yellow cloth paid for with deceit, blood, and death. So much for fame and glory. His life would be a living hell of his own making. He even began to envy Bowman. At least HIS troubles were over.  
  
Hannibal always keeps his promises, and so do I. Oh, yes, a promise, although he would never be sure. He would never know. Only now, did he know the meaning of true terror.  
  
----------------------------  
  
In her third stolen car, Clarice Starling clicked off the cell phone and tossed it out of the window. It couldn't be used again. She had been cutting it very close timewise, but she had to make sure Layton wouldn't be getting any sleep for quite some time. It might give him time to think. She would not call on him. Layton wasn't worth the time or the trouble. But he need never know that. Clarice ran her fingers through her black wig and readjusted her brown contacts. She had learned quite a few things from her stay with Hannibal. Hannibal...she almost smiled. Her current stolen car was a black super-charged Jaguar, sleek and elegant. Surely Hannibal would have approved.  
  
The bright-red necklace of rubies was settled carefully around her neck. The vibrant stones caught every ray of emerging sunlight and set off a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors dancing every which way. She would remove it before reaching the airport. It would be too memorable and easy to identify. But now she savored it.  
  
The robotic voice she had used for the conversation was gone and her hard-set jaw line began to tremble slightly. Her eyes were dry, though, as she glanced in the rearview mirror. Hannibal lay in the backseat, carefully wrapped in the pure white sheet from the bed where they had first made love. Clarice knew that the FBI would have given him a less than decent burial.  
  
She would stop on the road along her way by a small struggling mortuary. They would ask no questions when they saw what she would pay them. She would cremate the body; it was inconceivable that Hannibal would ever want to be buried in the ground. She would imagine him laughing as the corporeal body blazed and sent sparks toward the sky. But his final resting place would be her heart.  
  
Hannibal wasn't dead. Of course he wasn't. Not as long as she went on thinking and feeling. He was there in the seat next to her, perhaps shaking his head as he chided her for her hastily prepared disguise. Utterly unacceptable, he said, I would catch you in a second, Mrs. Robinson. Or maybe he was looking at her softly, love shining deeply in his eyes.  
  
Clarice smiled as she touched her abdomen gently, and for a moment, even she could feel the life growing inside her. A deep, warm, tingling sensation like electricity. Out of the ashes of death and destruction, new life would arise. It was only the beginning, in more ways than one. The child would grow, would be extraordinary. And, Clarice vowed, the child would know of his or her father. Would know who he really was. Would know that in the few weeks they had had together, they had loved a lifetime.  
  
Hannibal had spoken very highly of Florence, and the city was sure to be glorious this time of year. There would be no better place to start over. She had all the time in the world. Driving along the deserted rural road, Clarice opened the glove compartment of the Jaguar. As she sorted through the CD's she found there, she saw that the previous owner had had quite an acceptable taste in music.  
  
She decided on Scarlatti.  
  
FIN 


End file.
